Life Goes On
by Semper Mea
Summary: Mulder and Scully have gone their separate ways, but they haven't forgotten. One handwritten letter opens Scully's eyes to the mistake she made three years ago. Can she get to Mulder before it's too late? ScullyOther in the beginning, eventual MSR
1. Chapter 1

**Life Goes On**

**By Semper Mea**

**Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. No money, ect. is being made. Don't sue.**

**Author's notes: This is a story that I've had in the works for a long time. It's definitely a WIP. Let me know what you think.**

I love waking up to the smell of bacon frying. Dylan is an early riser, always had been, according to his mother, and has this odd habit of cooking breakfast for me. It's already past eleven today, however; even Dylan has trouble getting up at the crack of dawn when we'd fallen asleep at nearly four in the morning last night.

Stretching my arms above my head languidly, I sat up in the large four-poster bed, the pastel yellow satin sheet slipping to expose my nude chest to the warm afternoon sun. Placing my feet onto the floor, I stood. I reached for Dylan's maroon dress shirt, flung carelessly over the lampshade, and, sliding it over my bare shoulders; I buttoned four buttons in the middle. Soundlessly, I padded out into the kitchen.

When I rounded the corner, I stopped and smiled. Dylan, dressed only in a pair of work slacks, stood in front of the stove, singing loudly using a spatula as a microphone. "_I'm addicted to you, don't you know that you're toxic_!" Having not yet spotted me, he deftly flipped the pancakes, and then resumed his singing. "_I am beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can't bring me down, no." _

I couldn't help it. Really, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I burst out laughing, and he spun around so fast that he dropped the spatula and stubbed his toe into the counter in the process; which, of course, only made me laugh harder.

When he got over his surprise, he quickly wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him. "What's the matter," he asked. "Don't like pop music?" My only response was a gingerly lifted eyebrow. "Okay, bad pop aside, how do you want your eggs?"

"How do I always want my eggs?"

"Right." He turned back to the stove and, with a flick of his wrist, turned off the flames under the pancake pan. "Oh, Dana, there's a letter for you on the table."

The moment I saw the familiar slant of my last name on the envelope, I knew. Oh God, I hadn't heard from him in such a long time now. A _long_ time. Not since we'd fought, and I'd walked out of his apartment, out of the Bureau, out of his life.

With trembling hands, I carried the letter into the living room as if it were made of lead. This was heavy; not the letter itself, but the weight of the feelings that I was sure were contained within the envelope.

_Scully,_

_It's been a while. Okay, three years is more than a while, it's been forever. An eternity. But I'm not going to ramble on and on in the first paragraph – don't want to lose your attention so quickly._

Like you could ever lose my attention, Mulder, I thought fondly.

_Skinner told me that he got a letter from you last Monday. An invitation, actually. To your wedding. You're getting married, Scully. Wow. Congratulations. I just wish you didn't hate me so much, that I didn't have to find out about it from your former boss, that I'd have been the one/\\\\ to get the invitation instead of the man that you never even really trusted. I'm so sorry._

Oh Mulder. I don't hate you. I never hated you, not once. I wish I could have sent the invitation to you instead, too. What did you scratch out in that sentence, Mulder? Did you make a typographical error, or did you wish you'd been the one to receive something else?

_I was listening to your favorite radio station the other day, you know, the one that plays all those sappy songs from the decades gone. I listen to it now more than I would ever admit to. I heard your favorite song on there last week. Well, it used to be your favorite song. Iris, I think it's called. It's a great song, Scully. It's just too bad it makes me cry every time that I hear it now. Seems like so much can make me cry these days._

I don't know if she's told you, but your mom and I have been talking regularly since . . . since you left. She says that since none of her biological children live nearby, I'm kind of her surrogate son anyway. I'm really sorry Scully. I know how much that probably hurt you just now. But, your mother insisted that I write this to you, and she also demanded that I make the point that you're being unfair to her. She's been so kind to me, Scully. She saw how it was after you first were gone; I was just kind of pretending you were still here, that nothing had changed, that I hadn't changed. That didn't take long to wear off, and then, I just shut down. I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise - you know how I am. Or you did know. Maybe you've forgotten by now. But I haven't changed. I'm still fighting the good fight, one consortium bastard at a time – it's just one lonely ride now.

He's right, that did hurt – a lot. Not only that, but also the accusation that I'd forgotten him. I could never forget, Mulder. Never.

_I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm doing okay. I'm hurting inside. It hurts so badly some days that I don't think that I'm going to make it, but I just keep telling myself that life goes on. You're not here with me anymore, Scully, you're miles away. And I still need you. I do. I always do. I always will need you. And the nights are stealing the days and it's all blurring together sometimes and at the end of it all, there's still nothing I can do. I missed my chance. I let it slip through my fingers, let you walk out my door, and now you're gone. There's nothing I can do. I miss you so damn much. If you could only know. And some nights, I lie there and I wonder, do you feel it too? _

_And then, Skinner tells me you're getting married, and I think, that's it. You're never coming back. Why would you now, after all this time? You've finally got your life that you've always wanted. I'll bet he's perfect. I'll bet he's a doctor. No. He's a veterinarian. He's tall, taller than me, with a stronger build and deep blue eyes probably. I'd say dark brown hair with one lock that falls into his eyes, but I'd be wrong, and I'd be flattering myself. If I said he had dark blonde hair that was cut long enough that required a daily brushing but not as long as yours, Scully, then I'd be right. Close your mouth – I'm not spying on you. I am a profiler after all. Don't worry, Scully, I'm sure he's perfect for you. _

_Just, not as perfect as I could have been. Never doubt that I love you, have always loved you; will always. I'll see you in the next lifetime. I'll leave you to your own life in this one, as hard as I know that'll be. I love you._

_Love,_

_-M_

Something akin to shock took over my body as the tears that had been welling in my eyes since I picked up Mulder's letter trickled their tired way down my cheeks. All along, I'd been running from my feelings, only to discover now, too late, that he'd felt the same way. I've read this story; in a hundred different books, told a hundred different ways. The tragic lovers, fated to forever love each other, but, alas, never be together. Just my luck. Eight years of monsters, shadows, and conspiracy theories. Eight years of loving an unlovable man. A one second choice in which I ended it all. Three years, three wonderful years spent blissfully free of the aforementioned monsters, shadows, and conspiracy theories, and somehow, I've managed to regain all of the feelings of those eight years - all because of a tiny, hand-written letter.

A hand on my shoulder causes me to start forcefully. "Dana? Are you alright?" Dylan's warm, concerned voice inquires. Try as I might, I cannot force myself to tear my eyes away from the sheets of legal paper in front of me, but I nod for Dylan's benefit.

He moves around to the front of the couch and sits next to me. I should have known he would not be so easily convinced – he is like Mulder in that respect. He does not make a motion to read the papers in my hand, and I do not try to conceal them. We have built a mutual trust not unlike the one that Mulder and I shared, although, and I see it now, not nearly as strong. "Dana . . ." Dylan trails off and looks away from me. I can almost hear the lecture he is going to give me in my head - I have heard it many times. And, suddenly, I realize that I have no desire to hear it again.

"You know what, Dylan?" The tears that are still in my eyes and on my face can be heard in my voice, and he looks up at me sharply. "I'm not fine. I . . ." I trail off, not really knowing where to go with this. To tell the man that I'm supposed to marry in less than two weeks about not only this letter, but about everything else . . .

Because, you see, Dylan doesn't know about Mulder. At all. To him, I've always been a forensic pathologist for the Medical Examiner's Office here in Chicago. I never told him about my past at the Bureau, mainly because of the hurt that I felt over the situation with Mulder and the reluctance to discuss it with anyone. As time wore on and Dylan and I grew closer, the need to put Mulder out of my mind completely surpassed any other sort of idea I might have had for coming clean.

So, instead, I take the easy way out. I hand Dylan Mulder's letter. I know he's going to be hurt and confused, but it's the only way I can think of to explain. However, when he's finished, he looks up at me with a sort of amusement in his eyes. "You dated a profiler, Dana? Like, from the FBI?"

It's all I can do to prevent myself from running out of the house. He's incredibly intelligent really, just horribly dense at times. "No, I didn't, Dylan." I mutter, my eyes focused somewhere around my feet.

"Who'd he work for then? The CIA? The Secret Service?" He's becoming more and more excited with each name he rattles off, so I finally snap my head up to lock my gaze onto his. He immediately stops talking.

I stand, pacing the room as my thoughts become more and more jumbled. I'm still not sure where to start, but one lone sentence stands out in the tangled chaos that has become my mind – I never dated him . . . I never dated him! I didn't realize that I had said this out loud until I looked up and caught the startled look on Dylan's face.

"Well, that letter – it was just, I just assumed that you, well, I . . ."

I sink into the leather armchair across from the sofa. "He was my partner." Again, my head is hung low, my gaze focused on my lap, as I wait.

"Partner? At the Medical Examiner's Office?"

I'm really trying to figure out what attracted me to Dylan in the first place, because, right now, he's displaying a level of idiocy that I'm finding hard to believe. "No. At the FBI."

I look up at him then. I see the precise moment when realization hits him like a sledgehammer. "Dana, _you_ worked for the FBI? But, you told me that you'd been an assistant ME since you'd been out of Med School."

I shoot him an icy glare. "Look, Dylan. I'd really rather not talk about that right now. If you want to understand who Mulder was – is – you've got to put aside the fact that I lied to you and just listen to me." He nods solemnly and I squeeze my eyelids tightly together. This isn't going to be easy, I know. It's going to be one of the most difficult explanations of my life, and yet, one of the most important. I've got to explain to the man that I thought that I loved why I was wrong. I take a deep breath and stand up. I know I am not going to be able to say this facing him.

"A little over eleven years ago, I was assigned to FBI's X-Files division, which essentially investigated the Bureau's unwanted cases – aliens, ghosts, the unexplained, spooky stuff that no one else wanted to look into. Before I joined the X-Files, only one agent was working on the project – Agent Fox Mulder.

"Mulder and I spent years gaining each other's trust, which we ultimately did. In fact, by our third year of partnership, neither of us trusted anyone else. With that trust came a profound friendship that I came to cherish, as did Mulder. People often mistook us for lovers; we were not, however.

"With our jobs came a high degree of danger. We both sustained a number of on the job injuries. I was abducted and contracted cancer through my job. We both sustained numerous gunshot wounds. Together, though, we dealt with whatever the job handed us. We both knew we wouldn't change anything. I think that being together was enough.

"Then, a case eight years ago proved to be a little tough. It was, well, we were investigating a series of murders out in Colorado. They had what Mulder felt was a paranormal element that a friend of his had a sort of expertise in, and called her in to consult for us. Turns out that they had a sort of . . . past, and, to make a long story short, a lot of things happened on that case, and in the end, he ended up trusting her over me." The words came out cold, my matter-of-fact tone surprised me. How I could rattle off the overview of my relationship with Mulder the same way that I'd relay the findings of an autopsy or in the manner of a field report, I couldn't say.

"Well, that'd make sense," Dylan points out cautiously, interjecting into my explanation for the first time. "Considering that she had an expertise that you didn't have."

"You don't understand the situation, or how much emphasis our relationship was on trust. You'd just have to meet Mulder to really understand that."

"Maybe I should."

I look at him, startled. "Meet Mulder? My God, Dylan. I haven't seen him myself in three years. Not since I walked out on him." I am saddened when I think about that night, about how different it could be now if I would have played my cards just a little differently, if I wouldn't have walked out that door, or, at the very least, let him follow me like I know he would have if I would have made it possible.

I look up at Dylan, who has his arms crossed in front of his chest and a contemplative look on his face. "What?" I ask him, suspicious.

"Maybe _you_ should go see him. I can tell from his letter that he's resigned himself to never seeing you again." I open my mouth to protest, but he holds his hand up to stop me. "No, hear me out. If he doesn't think that he's ever going to see you again, and you so obviously think that's a bad idea, why don't you give him no choice and just show up on his doorstep?"

"I never mentioned anything about going to see him! In fact, I think that's a horribly _bad_ idea!" I protest half-heartedly.

"I don't think that's true. I can tell from your mannerisms that you're nervous about something, meaning that you're about to tell me something big. So either you're pregnant, which I _know_ is impossible, or you're about to call the wedding off. I'm going to choose the latter, because I can tell that you loved, and still do love, this guy." Dylan's eyes are shining with unshed tears, but he smiles up at me. "I'm really no comparison, huh? I can tell by the look in your eyes when you talk about him."

I'm beginning to remember why I fell for this guy – he's genuinely sweet. He's a great catch – for someone else. Dylan's right; he's no comparison to Mulder. I lean down and give Dylan a tight hug. "I'm really sorry," I whisper in his ear. "But I'd almost forgotten . . .that I felt like this. It's just . . . right. I'm so sorry."

He hugs me back with a ferocity that I've never felt from him. "I'm sorry too, for not seeing this before, not understanding that something was missing with us and for wasting the last two years of both our lives."

"It's not your fault," I tell him.

"I can't help feeling like I should have sensed it somehow. But, I don't know what we're standing around talking about it for. Go, pack, whatever. Get going. I think you have a relationship to fix – I don't think it'll be that hard."

"You don't know Mulder that well. The trust – it'll take a long time to come back."

"But the love was never gone, that makes a huge difference."

"I just have to convince Mulder of that." I give Dylan a quick kiss, and run to the bedroom. As I'm throwing underwear into a suitcase, the ridiculousness of packing for a trip to have a surprise reunion with my ex-partner that I've been secretly in love with for close to ten years while dressed in only my current, soon to be ex, fiancé's maroon dress shirt strikes me. Soon, I cannot control my laughter, and then, I can't tell the laughter from the tears.

**A/N: More to come with this. What's Mulder doing? We'll see. Oh, and this fic is inspired by Poison's "Life Goes On". If you know the song, you might be able to pic out some lyrics!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Life Goes On**

**Chapter Two**

**By Semper Mea**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm not making any money, don't sue.**

**Author's notes: Poor Mulder. Wonder what he's up to while Scully's been busy forgetting him.**

One monotonous case after another - that's what my life has become. First, I investigated a sighting of Bigfoot in the Colorado wilderness. Legend had it that he had appeared on the outskirts of Denver at midnight every Saturday since October 22 of last year. Turns out that it wasn't Bigfoot at all, not that I really expected it to be. It was really an extraordinarily hairy man by the name of Jerry Morris, whose wife had died on Saturday, October 22, and had gone running drunk and naked through the woods where she died as a kind of memorial to her thereafter. I guess there are your garden-variety weirdoes everywhere.

Then, I attempted to go back to what I knew - alien abductions. I looked into a report of an alien abduction in the little town of Gulfport, Illinois. The woman that I talked to on the telephone seemed clearly distraught and genuine, so I agreed to meet her at her workplace in Gulfport, and got all the necessary paperwork from Skinner.

When I arrived in Gulfport, I found not a nice woman working in a nice establishment in a nice little town; but instead, I pulled into what I quickly gathered was a bar town. I checked into my motel, which didn't allow you to pay for a full night, but rather, by the hour, and drove to the woman's place of work - it didn't take me long to figure out that it was a rather sleazy strip club. She was sitting outside on the hood of a supped up 69 Ford Mustang, dressed in a leather skirt that barely covered her, and a matching black leather halter top - I turned my old, G-Man Ford Taurus around so fast that the tires squealed.

That was the last case I ever investigated as part of the X-Files division.

Now, they've got two new agents assigned to it. Skinner let me handpick them. He said it was my division, that I was still going to be the head of it whether I actually worked on the cases or not, whether I _wanted_ to be or not; that way when _she_ got back we could take over again if we wanted to. He actually said 'when she gets back.' I just growled at him to never say that name around me again and left. I think he got the message, because he never has. Not even when he handed me that wedding invitation.

I can't think about this now. I told myself that I was going to move on, that I was going to stop letting her monopolize my thoughts after all this time. It's not healthy. I've got to put her out of my mind - I just, for the life of me, don't know how.

Maggie's been a godsend throughout all of this; I don't know what I would have done without her. Probably put a gun in my mouth, then I wouldn't have to worry about what's going to happen to me day after day. I wouldn't have to give up everything that I ever loved in order to function; nothing's the same without her. Why the hell did she have to go?

One final push, that was all it took. One slight misunderstanding, one last frayed strand of trust, and she was gone. I always knew it would take a lot for her to leave me, I just never realized it could be something so seemingly petty and insignificant that would finally do it. To go back to that day, to do it all over again, I'd give anything. Anything. I'd give my next breath to know that she didn't hate me, to know that maybe, there was a chance for us. Anything would be better than what I'm going through right now, what I have been going through for the last three years.

It's been hell. Hell doesn't even begin to describe it.

Back when _she_ was still here, I'd stay at work until ungodly hours, tracking down leads far into the night. Not anymore. I get there exactly at 9 a.m., I leave right at 5 p.m. - my work day is now dictated by the clock, something that's never happened before.

Everything's changed. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't go to work, I can't just sit around my own freaking house without thinking about her. She pervades my thoughts, and that makes me angry. She left _me_, dammit. Why can't I move on? She has. She's getting married, for god's sake.

And I, I'm destined to stay in this sprawling metropolis, dreaming of her every damned day until I'm gone - God only knows when that'll be. If I think I'm going to forget her, I'm kidding myself.

As I'm sitting here, sprawled out on the leather sofa that once gave me solace, watching but not really seeing some inane rerun yet again, I wonder when it's all going to stop. It's been three years. Three years without her. And yet, life goes on. It never stops.

Please, just make it stop.

**A/N : Whoo, Mulder!Angst in full gear here. What do you think, should Mulder welcome Scully with open arms? Would he? We'll find out.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Life Goes On**

**Chapter Three**

**By Semper Mea**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, don't sue.**

**A/N: Here's Scully again, awaiting the happy reunion. It's short, I know, but I should be updating soon! **

Three hours later, I'm showered, dressed, and Dylan and I are waiting to board flight 948 from Chicago straight to Washington. Dylan decided that he wanted to meet Mulder after all, and is accompanying me to Washington. That's perfectly okay with me - I hate to fly alone.

Flying with Dylan is much different than flying with Mulder. Dylan doesn't fall asleep two seconds after settling himself into the seat, and if, for some reason, he _does_ fall asleep, his face doesn't end up in my lap. Dylan doesn't eye the stewardess the entire time he's not got his face in my lap, or ask me extraordinarily annoying questions, such as 'Do you think such and such was strangled by his own aura?" or "Do you think such and such person could have possibly traveled to the center of the Earth on the Beatles yellow submarine?" As far as I know, Dylan doesn't even _listen_ to the Beatles, which is fine with me, because that means that he also doesn't blare it in his headphones and then promptly fall asleep with his head resting on my shoulder. Yes, Mulder had the art of 'Annoying Scully' all figured out, and he was damned good at it.

I'm also horribly nervous about touching down in my previous hometown - I haven't been back there in three years. I always meant to get back for Christmas to visit my mom, but something always came up, and it almost always had to do with Mulder. Mom, Bill, Charlie, and I all got together two years ago at Bill's house in San Diego, but the withering looks that Mom shot me every two minutes prevented me from attending the annual Scully Thanksgiving convention at Charlie's house in Seattle last year. I didn't go to Mom's house for Christmas for obvious reasons - namely, Mulder was there.

Now, I'm minutes away from touching down in Washington for the sole purpose of seeing the man I've been desperately trying to avoid. The added anxiety is not helping my fear of flying at all. My hands are clutching at the armrests of the strangely uncomfortable first class seat as Dylan eyes me cautiously. I think he knows better than to say anything, even though this is his first time on an airplane in the presence of Dana Scully.

I think this trip is going to be one hell of a rough landing.

I've decided to wait and approach Mulder on neutral territory. He's bound to be shocked and confused by my sudden reappearance, and I want him to be in a setting that he's comfortable. I can't think of a place that Mulder was more comfortable than in our office.

For tonight, though, I think it's best that Dylan and I check into a hotel. I would love nothing more than to go back to my old apartment, but it's been three years; I'm sure the landlord has sold it by now. I'd stay with my mother if I thought she'd be hospitable, but I don't think she's exactly in the welcoming mood right now. That leaves me with no other alternative.

The hotel Dylan chooses is by far better than the dozens of cheap, sleazy motels and motor inns that Mulder checked us into over the years. It's in downtown D.C. - a far ritzier area than what I could ever afford. But, on his veterinarian's salary, Dylan is able to, and more than willing to, get us the best accommodations this city has to offer. After all, he had reasoned, he'd never been here before.

Dylan went out sightseeing about an hour ago. I'm sitting here in the hotel, by myself. I tried watching tv, but I really had no desire to watch either an old rerun of _The Blob_ or some new cheesy sci-fi television program.

I'm bored.

**A/N: What? That's it? Yeah, I know, it's really short, but I'll try really hard to update within the next week. Look for Skinner next!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Life Goes On**

**By Semper Mea**

**Chapter Four**

**Author's Notes: Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I know I promised this chapter weeks ago, but apparently, reality has a way of getting in the way of our intentions. Between work and school and play practice, I've had zero time to write. My muse and I, however, have decided to sneak around the restrictions of real life to work on this. Thanks for your feedback! **

In all honesty, I'm not quite sure how I ended up here. One minute I was sitting in the hotel room, looking for something to do, and the next, I was outside in the snowy street, hailing a cab. At least I haven't forgotten _that_.

That was over twenty minutes ago, and it's getting colder by the second. The snow is falling at an alarming pace from the sky, and the usually busy street is deserted at this early hour. I've been looking up at the building for what seems like a lifetime, and, despite the numbness in my extremities, I can't seem to find the courage to step inside.

I wonder if Mulder's down in the basement, working diligently on some odd case or another. Three years ago, I would have bet money on it, but now, I'm not so sure. He was right; three years _is_ a lifetime. Who knows what has changed?

I shiver, my heavy woolen overcoat beginning to become damp from the snow. My eyes slowly track up to a light in a window I know only too well.

A snowflake lands in my eyelashes, and the melted water trickles slowly down my face. Somehow, I just can't manage to wipe it off.

My eyes are beginning to drift closed as I stare blankly at the computer screen. The words written there ceased to make sense to me hours ago, and yet, I continue to try to decipher them.I glance at my reflection in the mirror over my desk; tie askance, eyes ringed with the deep purple of fatigue, I paint the picture of exhaustion. I consult my watch and realize with a jolt that it's nearly three in the morning; I know I should go home. It's just that I no longer have anything to go home _to_.

My office is a mess. Food wrappers, papers, and discarded clothing are piled everywhere. Hell, it's a wonder I can find anything. I've never been one for organization, but even I have to admit this is ridiculous. For a moment I absently wonder exactly how I'm going to explain the red ketchup stain on the report I'm scheduled to file in the morning, then I remember - it _is_ morning. I'm so tired. I just wish I could sleep.

Sitting in the plush office chair, I long inwardly for the days when I got out in the field and actually _investigated_ cases, instead of the bureaucracy, who's-in-charge-of-who, bullshit. The heart and soul of this job, the life of a good cop, condensed down into a massive pen and ink mess that, once you're in, you've got to be forced out. And I'm too damn stubborn to allow them the satisfaction of _that._

A knock sounds softly on my door, and I jump slightly. It's three in the morning, I remember. Who, exactly, would come knocking at my door at three in the morning?

I stand, quickly shoving some trash under my desk. Whoever it is, I'm sure they won't appreciate the state of my office. As if I cared anyway.

I pull open the door, prepared to let loose an impressive string of expletives when I stop cold, my words dying in my throat. That red hair, those blue eyes; things I'd thought I'd never see again. "_Scully?"_ I choke out, my tone incredulous.

"Sir, I - " she trails off, her gaze settling somewhere in the vicinity of my ill-knotted necktie. "Could I have a word with you?"

My eyes glance quickly toward the windows of my outer office. The hallways, now dark and gloomy, appear deserted. Mulder has, undoubtedly, long since gone home, but in the off chance that he's still around, I don't want him to see her here. I want her to go to him. I guess I'm still a believer, however reluctantly, in fairy tales, which most certainly makes me a bigger sucker than Mulder ever was. "Yeah, sure. Come in." I motion broadly with my arm, inviting her to step inside my inner office. "This is an unexpected surprise, Agent Scully," I throw out over my shoulder, forcing a modicum of professionalism into my voice.

As she settles into one of the chairs in front of my desk, and I into my own, I am struck by the familiarity of this scene. "Agent Scully," I begin, wishing I could figure out how to force everything I know she needs to hear into words.

"As I'm not with the Bureau anymore, sir, the 'Agent' title isn't necessary, nor is it probably appropriate." Her faint smile seems sad, but I've yet to determine the reason behind this uncharacteristically unannounced early morning visit. Not that I ever _could_ quite put my finger on either her or her quirky partner; who has, however, become significantly easier to read in the past three years.

I nod at her curtly. This is when she is supposed to realize that I'm no longer a superior or an authority figure, but rather, a friend that she can confide in. "I am curious, Dana. Shouldn't you be bringing a special guest for me to meet?"

Her faint smile broadens slightly. "Dylan is, at the moment, sightseeing. And, I know that I asked you if you'd walk me down the isle in two weeks - "

I flash her a quick smile, just a slight upturn of my lips. "I'd be delighted to have that honor."

"And I thank you again, sir, but . . ." she trails off, her gaze falling unceremoniously to her lap. "Dylan and I have mutually agreed that a wedding would not be in our best interests."

My eyes widen, and I fight to contain my surprise. I'd always figured Scully would be one of those people who committed wholly and completely. "What happened?" I wonder aloud, not stopping to think that, perhaps, it wasn't any of my business.

Eyes downcast, she pulls a folded section of paper from her jacket pocket. "It's why I'm here, actually. I received this in the mail two days ago." She leans across my desk to hand me the well-worn sheets of paper, and I carefully unfold them; somehow sensing that they are of infinite importance. This is confirmed by the nearly illegible scrawl filling the lines; unmistakably Mulder's handwriting. I look up at her sharply and she nods, giving me permission to peruse the letter at length.

I am shocked at the forwardness expressed in the letter, which confirmed nearly every suspicion I'd ever had regarding Mulder. He was a fool, I think, to have let her walk away. If I'd have been in his shoes, I'd have done everything in my power to get her back, the consequences be damned. I'm appalled at Mulder's cowardice. I look up at Scully with an ironic smile twisting my face. "It's just like Mulder to give up now, in a letter like this."

Her brow furrows at my words. "What do you mean? I don't understand." Her puzzled expression pierces my heart. She really has no clue what she's done to him.

"After you . . . left, Mulder sort of fell apart." I begin, trying to soften this blow that I know will be hard for her to take. "I'd never seen him that way before. Not even when you were taken; he'd had something to hold on to then, you know? He'd been comforted by the fact that you'd been abducted, as awful as that sounds, but he was fueled because he'd had you to look for.

"This time, you'd left by your own free will, and he just couldn't take that. I know that, in the beginning, he'd held out hope that you'd come back. But as time wore on and he realized that you _weren't_ coming back, he became . . . bitter, almost. He just stopped caring, about everything. That little light inside of him just kind of died."

I look up at her, and she reminds me for all the world of a lost little girl. I wish I didn't have to say all of this, that there wasn't more to this awful story I was being forced to tell. But I know that she needs to hear it, all of it, so that maybe she can understand. Maybe she can do what I failed to do. Maybe she can save him.

"I did everything I could to try and save him, Scully, I did - I dangled the cases he would have jumped at before, the kind of cases _they_ never wanted him to have, right under his nose. Nothing. He didn't even bat an eye. Finally, he requested a transfer. He said that the X-Files were dead to him, all of it was dead, that nothing mattered. I didn't have a choice, so I transferred him.

"I kept the X-Files open, by some miracle, and forced Mulder to choose the new agents. I told I'm I'd be monitoring their progess to make sure they were performing up to par and that the unit wasn't infiltrated by the Consortium. He said that he didn't even care anymore.

"It's been . . . tough, I think. I keep trying to reach him, but nothing works. The only one that can get through to him is your mother. Thank God for her; who knows what would have happened to him otherwise."

Realizing that I was finished, Scully reluctantly lifts her gaze to meet mine, and the tear tracks marring her pretty porcelain face are painfully apparent. "How could I do this to him?" Her whispered words are like a shout. "To us? Over something so _stupid_?"

I wish I could fix this. Just turn back time and make everything alright again. "The important thing is that you're here now. I know it'll take a while to build back up the trust and the friendship, and I'm sure it'll be hard to ignore the fact that he loves you, but . . ."

She interrupts me, her harsh tone shattering the quiet of my office. "Don't you understand? This is so ridiculous! We've been running around in these pointless circles, hoping that maybe we'll be able to keep our feelings hidden under the surface. I wanted to keep everything hidden under that stupid mask I wear; hidden from him so I wouldn't have to face the sting of rejection, hidden from you so I wouldn't have to deal with all the damn complications and pointless regulations. Then, come to find out, three years later, that he felt the same way! That, no matter how I try to forget, that it just won't leave!" The hysteria bubbling just beneath her usual calm exterior is really beginning to scare me.

Before I can say anything, she stands abruptly. "I - I have to go. I really . . ." She looks around wildly, as if she were trying to find something. "Really appreciate you talking to me, but I - I just can't take this anymore." With that cryptic statement, she quite literally runs out of my office.

I'm not surprised, really. Scully's never been one to loose control in front of me and then stick around long enough for me to help pick up the pieces. That was always Mulder's job. I can't help wondering who's there for her now, without him. I can only hope that this particular fairy tale has a happy ending.

**Author's Notes: Aww, who knew Skinner was such a romantic? Lots more to come with this one, as long as real life cooperates. Please review! I won't make any promises about when I'll update next, but I'll try to make it soon!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Life Goes On**

**By Semper Mea**

**Chapter Five**

**Author's Notes: I think I've finally come up with a solution to a stubborn muse and a severe case of writer's block – **

**- nagging fans! That's wonderful motivation, and I want to thank everyone that has given me a proverbial kick in the butt. Here's the next installment.**

_Mulder_

You know, it's weird how some things play out. I no longer sleep on my couch; memories of late nights watching stupid movies and sipping cheap beer haunt me, and I can no longer force myself to lie on the soft leather that I once loved. The waterbed that mysteriously appeared in my bedroom is now gone, replaced by an ordinary mattress. It is here that I've spend so many aching hours, staring at the ceiling and mourning the loss of my life.

Despite all the obstacles we'd faced, looking back now I realize that I used to be happy. The happiest I'd ever been in my life, in fact. Back then, I never understood how great I had it; a job that I loved, the friendship of the woman that I loved. Both things that I'm going without now.

I wonder what I'd do if I ever saw her again. Some days I'd trade my next breath for just one more glimpse of her. One last chance to let my eyes travel over the features my mind won't allow me to forget.

Other days I'm so damn angry that I've sure I'd pull my gun on her if fate afforded me the chance. It was she, after all, that walked out the door, effectively ruining my life. She's the one that's had no trouble moving on, while I'm stuck remembering. Something twists in my gut every time that I realize how little she's probably thought about me in the last three years.

I've thought of nothing else.

_Dylan_

I was surprised when I came back to our hotel to find the room empty. The note next to the telephone told me that Dana intended to take her rental car for a drive. It didn't tell me where she'd gone or when she'd be back. I wasn't worried; she'd lived here for years and had been fine.

I was roused from a deep sleep by a muffled sob coming from the bed next to mine. I run a hand through my tousled hair as I sit up. "Dana?"

She sniffles in the darkness, and it is a moment before she replies. "I'm fine, Dylan; go back to sleep."

I've been with her long enough to understand that 'I'm fine' is code for 'there's something seriously wrong that I don't want to talk about.' Soundlessly, I climb out of my warm bed and into hers. She is curled onto her side, the blankets beneath her are already damp from her tears.

I pull her into my arms, and she accepts my embrace without a struggle. "Shh," I whisper in what I hope is a soothing tone. "Don't cry, baby. What's wrong?"

There is a long pause while she collects her thoughts. Finally she replies, "I almost killed him, Dylan. I left him without a second thought. Why didn't I see that it would kill him?"

"It's not your fault," I tell her. "You can't live your life regretting the past. All you can do is to try and make today better."

Together, we fall asleep. Before I drift off, I know that this will be the last time I will be allowed to hold her like this.

Author's notes: I know it's short, but the rest of what I have didn't seem to fit in this chapter. I know that you rabid readers are waiting for the reunion, but alas, it is not to be quite yet. Just keep waiting; it'll be here soon (I know that soon is a relative term, but I've already got about half of next chapter written). As always, thanks for your feedback in advance.

**  
Also, I could use a beta. Any takers?**


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